Anne Palumbo: What’s up with these guys?

Monday

We need to talk. Something is going on with men and I don’t know what to make of it.

We need to talk. Something is going on with men and I don’t know what to make of it.

My confusion started over the summer. During my brisk walks through the neighborhood, I repeatedly came upon men standing in their yards – just standing.

These men would not be doing anything. They would not be hosing down their driveways with water; they would not be hacking at yews with trimmers; they would not even be blowing grass clippings into their neighbor’s yards. Nothing, I tell you! They would just be standing there, like statues, with their eyes fixated on something.

And they wouldn’t budge either – not even as I, a no-nonsense walker with a thunderous gait, got closer to their stationery beings.

I’m not saying that my presence required cartwheels. All I’m saying is that it is human nature to disengage from a stupor and attempt to look busy when you think you are being watched. If I do say so myself, I excel at moving from a comatose state to one that looks highly engaged – in record time.

Long ago, I trained myself how to do this out of necessity: I did not want to lose my job.

You see, back when I was working Outside the House, I would often get very drowsy after lunch. I always blamed it on rambunctious digestion – all the blood going to my stomach versus my head – but it could have been the nature of the work. Me? Writing computer-training manuals? I’m surprised I didn’t self-lobotomize.

So anyway, prior to taking my daily post-lunch nap, I would strategically place a few important books on my desk, stick a pencil in my hand and open a few file cabinets.

That way, when my boss poked his head in to see how I was coming with things, I had everything at my fingertips to wake up and “look alive!” (Fortunately, my back was to the door and my hearing was quite good – or else this technique would never have worked.)

To this day, my little technique still comes in handy. Even though I am not digesting big executive lunches anymore, I often find myself catatonic in some cozy corner of my home office, right around the time my husband gets home from work. Since I don’t want him to think he married a lazy lump, I feather my nap-nest with look-busy tools: a laptop, several highbrow books, and a rag to mop up the drool. (Unfortunately, my diminished hearing does blow my ruse at times – otherwise, it works like a charm.)

But back to men on the verge of a nervous lawn breakdown. Although I can often walk in someone else’s shoes and assess exactly what’s going on, I could not figure this one out. So, I explained the scenario to my husband and asked him what was up with these guys who were frozen like statues, staring at blades of grass.

“I think they’re looking for grubs,” he said.

“For twenty minutes?” I asked in disbelief.

“Grubs can ruin a man. Trust me, those guys were looking for grubs.”

Ah, I don’t know. Grubs? Heck, you can’t even see them when you’ve got your nose in the grass, and these guys were, at a minimum, five feet up. No, I think something else is going on. I don’t know what that “something else” is, but if I had to guess, I’d say it involves rambunctious digestion.